


Bitter rembrance

by redsnake05



Category: The Reluctant Widow - Heyer
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis Cheviot has other memories, too, ones that he will not share with anyone. They'll go with him to his own grave, cold and bitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter rembrance

Francis settled into a chair, screens placed to catch any treacherous draughts, fire burning merrily on the hearth. He pulled the tray loaded with a bowl of broth and a decanter of brandy towards him and dismissed Crawley with a wave of one white hand.

"I'll see myself into bed, Crawley," he murmured. His retainer bowed himself out of the room, not vouschafing by so much as a twitch of an eyebrow his surprise. Francis sighed and dipped his spoon into the bowl. The broth was good, and he finished most of it before pushing the tray away and settling back in his chair with a glass of brandy. He closed his eyes and let go the thoughts jostling behind his eyes.

Images assailled him – of the shyness in Louis's eyes the first time they met, of Louis's nervousness at their first ton party, of the flush on Louis's cheeks as they rode in the park. Francis pushed away later memories, preferring not to think of the clear light of Louis's eyes as he lied to him again and again.

He remembered Louis, at Francis's lodgings after a card party, laughing and sipping his wine, fixing Francis with those candid dark eyes and daring him to try something he'd always wanted. He remembered the wondering expression on his face as Francis did just that, leaning forward and kissing Louis. He remembered how they kissed for hours, slow heated torture of skin against skin, tongues rubbing together, breathing heavily as they parted for air before being dragged together again. Louis had pushed him down on the sofa and leaned over him, one hand braced on the fabric, the other free to roam, loosening Francis's cravat, stroking down a thigh, brushing across his stomach.

He remembered pushing Louis away, smiling and turning the interlude off with a joke, avoiding the memory, the reminders, any chance of it happening again. He remembered how long it took for Louis to look him in the eye again, and wondered, a little sickly, if even then there was a lie there.

Francis rose from his comfortable armchair and slipped off his robe before snuffing the candles and sliding between the sheets. Carlyon's housekeeper was a treasure; they were warm and crisp against his skin.

If he wished, in vain, for the press of warm olive skin against his, no one need know.

If he felt the bitter tang of betrayal in his throat, he knew he deserved it.


End file.
